


Team Greed Made Me Do It

by alby_mangroves



Category: Merlin (TV), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Angry Sex, Animal Transformation, Apocalypse, Blow Jobs, Body Paint, Community: summerpornathon, Crossover, Dom/sub, Drawble, Drawing, F/M, Fuck Or Die, Genderswap, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrations, M/M, Magic, Magic Revealed, Painting, Pegging, Sex Magic, Shapeshifting, Threesome - M/M/M, Zombies Alternate Universe - Zombies, camelotremix compliant, cartoon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-24
Updated: 2012-08-05
Packaged: 2017-11-08 10:27:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 6,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/442207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alby_mangroves/pseuds/alby_mangroves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Series of entries written for the Summer Pornathon 2012.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Calm Like a Bomb

**Author's Note:**

> When Merlin's art gets a bad review, Arthur's there to pick up the pieces
> 
> Entry #52 for Round 1: Image Prompts: http://archiveofourown.org/works/435253/chapters/739151

*

Arthur knows these stairs so well, he normally takes them three at a time, but not tonight.

He’s dreading going up to the studio, but goddamn it, he’s never backed away from anything in his life. He’s not about to start now. Especially not now.  

From above, _Rage Against the Machine_ pounds through the double brick, and Arthur feels it inside his chest like a punch to the lungs; Merlin only plays that shit when he’s livid.

Climbing up to the mezzanine takes too long and not long enough, and he wants to burst through the door and sneak in unnoticed, just to gauge how bad things are.

The volume from inside indicates DEFCON 2, one step away from open war. If Merlin’s rage was directed at Arthur, he’d be expecting to have his eyeballs gouged out with a rusty spoon and mailed to his mother in time for Christmas.

Merlin is an easy-going person, open and mild. But when he loses his shit, it’s Godzilla style.

Arthur sets his jaw and slides the door open, the wall of noise slapping him in the face.

Inside, it’s carnage. Arthur’s stomach crawls into his throat. “Fucking hell,” he groans, unheard over the eardrum annihilation.

Merlin’s beautiful, colourful canvases lie strewn all over the place like trees uprooted by a typhoon, as though Merlin punted them across the warehouse, not giving a shit where they land. They’re scattered everywhere, turned into projectiles by Merlin’s rage. Arthur’s eyes slide over the debris, mind flipping through ways to torture and maim arsehole art critics.

Movement against the far wall attracts his attention and he stops in his tracks, noting several important elements.

Merlin is painting.

Directly onto the wall.

In black.

He’s completely starkers.

Arthur assesses silently. Merlin’s naked body stretches like a tightly coiled spring as he throws himself around, following the lead of his angry brush. He’s sinew and bone, ridges and angles, but there’s power in his strong shoulders and back, and beauty in the tensile harmony of it all.  

Broad, vicious strokes drip paint everywhere, all over the floor and all over Merlin, but it’s the deliberate brush strokes all over his body which have all of Arthur’s attention; stripes of black rage adorn wiry limbs and narrow hips, dragged carelessly across his skin. Stepping carefully around the canvases, Arthur nears, thinking himself unnoticed. He has no time to react when Merlin spins, splattering a rough brush across Arthur’s chest, dividing him in two with a thick, black median.

Arthur feels Merlin’s savage eyes deep and low in his belly and doesn’t back down. He shows Merlin his teeth instead.

He seizes Merlin’s wrist in his large hand and flicks it to slap the paintbrush hard on his own cheek. It’s cold and startling, and he loves it. His mouth falls open as he drags black paint over his chin, his throat, his expensive shirt.

Merlin’s dark hawk’s eyes track each flicker of emotion like prey. He grasps a handful of Arthur’s shirt, then forces his hand between buttons to worry a tight nipple between dirty fingers. It’s like holding a lit match to Arthur’s tinder.

He takes Merlin’s mouth the way he takes everything he wants, thoroughly, brutally, vaguely amazed at how fast--how _always_ \--Merlin makes him flare, and catch, and burn. Within moments, they’re on an upturned canvas on the floor, smearing each other with fistfuls of black, Arthur’s shirt torn open and flapping, breath ragged in the cold. The acrylic is an acrid icepick through his nose but his mind is hot and frenzied, full of Merlin’s wild eyes, black hands and white stomach, the rigid insistence of his cock against the juncture of Arthur’s thigh.

Sucking bitter paint from Merlin’s nipple, Arthur slides his solid body between Merlin’s legs, pinning him down, filthy fingers tracing the cleft of his arse, painting Merlin slippery black inside and out to match his mood.

He works his big fingers the way Merlin likes, with the edge of hysteria making it raw and primal.

Merlin pants through his nose and grunts through gritted teeth until Arthur’s thick cock, glistening black with paint, splits him open. Arthur drives himself in and _in_ and _in_ , and _fuck_ , it’s _tight_ , _hot_ and _sweet Jesus_ , until there’s nothing in Merlin’s eyes but Arthur's reflection, and nothing on Arthur’s mind except fucking the rage out of him, easing down the snarling, black fury.

 _I’ve got you,_ Arthur thinks, hips deliberate and rough, just so. _I’m here. I’ve got you._


	2. girl!Merlin vs The Bully

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever thought about what things would be like if one of the characters on the show was a different gender? Discuss.
> 
> Entry for Round 1 Bonus: Genderswap: http://summerpornathon.livejournal.com/77953.html
> 
> Dialogue taken from S1E1.
> 
> Colin in drag courtesy of momentary lack of judgment. I'm really sorry, Colin. Really.

“Hey, come on, that’s enough.”

Arthur stops mid-stride. “What?”

“You’ve had your fun, my friend.”

Is this girl speaking to him? To Arthur Pendragon, Crown Prince of Camelot? He wants to be cool, even dismissive, but knows his incredulity is big-eyed and open-mouthed, and there’s no hiding it. This girl, this... waif, has just called him out in front of a crowd.

“Do I know you?” He stalls for time, not sure how to react. Now, had it been a man to challenge him this way, Arthur would’ve simply knocked him on his arse, but this, this he has no clue how to handle.

“I’m Merlin, so I don’t... no.” She holds out her- her HAND! The bloody cheek of it! He takes a longer, more thorough look.

She’s built like a poplar, tall and slim, a peasant by the look of her clothes, but Gods, there’s fire there.

She just walked alone into a circle of strange men, to stand up for someone she thought was being mistreated.

Arthur can’t help it; he’s impressed.

“Yet you called me friend.”

“That was my mistake.”

“Yes, I think so.” Now, he’s teasing, wanting to test her. Wanting to see what she’ll do. At some point, he becomes very well acquainted with the exact colour of her eyes.

“Yeah, I’d never have a friend who was such an arse.”

Arthur finds himself smiling. The day just got a lot less boring.

 

*whispers* I'm really, really sorry, Colin-in-drag.


	3. Zombocalypse Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's just like Arthur to wait until they're about to become Zombiesnacks.
> 
> Entry #15 for Round 2: Fuck or Die / Apocalypse: http://archiveofourown.org/works/441406
> 
> This entry won second place in Group A of the Give Some Fucks (Or Die) Challenge :)

“Need to tell you something,” Arthur whispers into the crook of Merlin’s neck. He noses through damp hair, seeking out the tiny freckle constellation he’s coveted, and licking it.

The roar outside is deafening, but in this intense pocket around them, Arthur knows Merlin hears him.  
  
“Oh?” Merlin rasps.  
  
“Might not get another chance,” Arthur pants. Merlin’s fingers talon into his hair and Arthur’s hips stutter. “Jesus Christ, don’t move,  _don’t move,_ fucking hell,” he chants into Merlin’s neck, sprung so tightly with his almost-orgasm, it feels like he’s clutching the edge of a cliff with splayed claws, bowed and prickly like an angry cat. Merlin stills beneath him.  
  
Arthur lifts up on his elbows to look at dark eyes and the mouth he knows the shape of by heart. He begins to slowly flex his hips again, relishing the flutter of lashes as Merlin’s eyes roll back.

“I know we agreed to fuck since we’re about to die, but that’s not my only reason.”  
  
“What?” Merlin blinks, looking to the storefront window, as if he’s checking they’re still on the dirty floor of Gaius’ antique shop.

Beyond the bullet-proof window—which seemed excessively pricey once—the sea of London’s zombiefied citizens continues to moan and pound its desperate brainlust into the barrier.

On the floor, two of Gaius’ beautiful antique bayonets lie side by side like wax seals over their it’s-better-to-bleed-out-than-be-eaten-alive-by-a-screaming-horde pact.  
  
“I really want this. You. I’ve been in love with you for ages.”  
  
“Oh my God,” Merlin whines,” NOW?  _NOW_  you tell me this, you absolute bloody—oh  _good God_ ,” he moans, and Arthur smiles, nibbling at Merlin’s earlobe, working himself deep and tight between Merlin’s thighs.  
  
“I think you’re gorgeous,” he continues, kissing Merlin’s throat, knowing he can’t hold back this time. “Watched you, wanted to murder Will in his sleep that time he got maggoted and kissed you. I  _hated_  him, even though I knew you weren’t together.”

He doesn’t add,  _and now he’s dead, so there, Will, SO THERE_. Might be the end of the world, but no need to be an arsehole about it.  
  
Merlin laughs with a giddy little sigh, which Arthur knows he will emboss into his arm with the tip of Gaius’ bayonet when time’s up.  
  
“Can’t believe you didn’t say anything,” Merlin whispers, tightening his arms around Arthur’s ribs, scratching his nape with needy fingers.

He pulls at Arthur’s hair until they’re eye to eye. “I would’ve stabbed old ladies and drowned bagfuls of kittens to get in your pants.”  
  
Arthur tuts. They grin at each other like idiots until the smiles succumb to bliss.

Arthur lowers to the crook of Merlin’s neck where his scent is strongest and breathes it in so fast his head spins with it.

With a handful of Merlin’s arse, he drives himself in  _again_  and  _again_ , skin slapping.  
  
He drowns out anything other than perfect friction and the hot suck of Merlin’s body, right there on the filthy shop floor where they’ve lived for over two weeks.

They’re starving, having run out of Gaius’ baked beans and kippers three days ago, waiting in vain for someone to rescue them. For the world to make sense again.  
  
Levering himself up on one elbow, Arthur reaches down between them and sneaks his fingers over Merlin’s reedy torso to his cock, wanting to watch, then follow, together this once.  
  
He pistons his hips into Merlin’s tight, slick arse, stripping him fast and hard. Merlin’s fingers dig trenches in Arthur’s back and he flexes, open-mouthed, coming.

And then, Arthur follows, careening off the edge of his orgasm thinking WHAT THE FUCK, because Merlin’s eyes are  _glowing like fireflies_  and Arthur can’t-  
  
What.  
  
Moments later, Merlin notices Arthur’s absolute stillness and the shock on his face.  
  
“Arthur?”  
  
Arthur blinks, then turns to the window. Merlin looks too, noticing the deafening silence.

Outside, all the zombies are lying down quietly like a putrid carpet, though a couple stumble into view in the far distance.  
  
Arthur frowns. “Did you--?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Your eyes went gold. The zombies are dead. What.”  
  
“Oh.” Merlin swallows. “I’m magic.”  
  
The cogs in Arthur’s brain whirr to life.  
  
“Could you’ve killed’em all before?”  
  
“Tried. Nothing worked. They’re magic, too.”  
  
“So... Maybe?” Arthur points to where they’re still joined, Arthur’s cock still pulsing.  
  
Merlin’s eyebrows shoot up. “You think?”  
  
“It’s the only thing that’s different.” Arthur frowns. “Maybe if you just wank—“  
  
“Did yesterday. Nothing changed.”  
  
Arthur grins, speculative.  
  
Merlin rolls his eyes and facepalms.  
  
Arthur is going be insufferable.


	4. Your Mouth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blah blah blah Last Supper Blah Blah.
> 
> Entry for Round 2 Bonus: Last Supper: http://summerpornathon.livejournal.com/79235.html

"No. Really? That's your last request?"  
  
"You promised you wouldn't laugh!"  
  
"I'm not laughing, Merlin, I'm just... I don't know. Surprised? I didn't even know you liked men."  
  
They lie in a field, side by side in silence, watching the stars fall from the sky, their glowing red tails sputtering in the night. It's the most spectacular thing Arthur has ever, ever seen, and that includes tits.

  
Trust bloody Morgana to kill the whole world just to get at him. It's a bit excessive, Arthur thinks.  _God_ , he's hungry.

If he'd known the world was about to end, he'd have had something nicer than stewed lamb for supper three days ago, when everything started going to shit, beginning with the earthquake which leveled Camelot. Maybe stewed lamb with potatoes. Or maybe stewed lamb with potatoes and--  
  
Merlin sighs quietly. "It's not that I like men, it's just that there has always been... something. Between us." He rises up on his elbow, and Arthur can feel Merlin's eyes touch his face like tentative fingers.  
  
"I don't know what you mean," Arthur says, but of course he does. He might be weakened with hunger but he's not an idiot.  
  
"It's just. Sometimes you look at me like you really  _see me_  and you. And you like me."  
  
Arthur considers lying about it, but then a huge explosion lights up the horizon, and the ground beneath them shakes so hard, his teeth rattle with it. He decides not to bother.  
  
"Yeah, all right. It's basically your mouth."  
  
Merlin frowns, perplexed. "My mouth."  
  
Arthur hums and looks at the mouth in question. Under scrutiny, it parts, glistening orange, reflecting the apocalyptic sky show. "It says the most ridiculous things, it's smart and talks back all the time. It  _never_  shuts up. And to top it off, it's. Well. You have the mouth of a woman, Merlin, all pretty bow on top and pouty all the time." Arthur draws the shape of it in the air with his finger to illustrate his point.  
  
Merlin's eyes are soft. "I do?"  
  
Arthur grins. "So maybe it's not such a bad last request after all."

He lifts his big hand to Merlin's scrawny neck and pulls down gently until their lips meet in a soft press as the sky caves in around them.


	5. Delivered From the Wilderness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur knows it's his destiny to end the Great War and unite the many peoples of Albion. He just didn't realize how.
> 
> Entry #41 for Round Three: Non-Human Characters: http://archiveofourown.org/works/447600/chapters/766373

Arthur wakes, sensing he’s being watched. Lying still as stone, he feels the creep of eyes over his skin, like hair rubbed against the grain. Hackles rise prickly as needles on his neck.

For two nights, Arthur has sensed this eerie hush settling over their camp, dousing all in a stupor, leaving him alone to sense the  _wrong_  in the air, his skin prickling so intensely it’s almost painful. Eventually it recedes into the forest as though it was never there, taking with it the soporific veil, though not the itch under Arthur's skin, nor the restlessness from his blood.

Arthur waits for it to dissipate this night too, hating these accursed woods and his father’s war on magic for bringing him here, but the clinging mist thickens until it’s a tight clench around the camp, and does not abate. Damp blankets of it creep into camp, while all around, battle-weary knights sleep like the dead, even the sentry dozing as he leans on his pike, enchanted.

Arthur’s heart clambers around his chest like bells in a fog, singing,  _run, run!_  His breath quickens, adrenalin searing his nerves, eyes full of black woods.

From the void, something comes.

An opaque thing—black as night and big as houses—moves silently into the clearing. Arthur gasps.

Beautiful and terrible, the gleaming black dragon creeps, ghost-like, claws soft on the forest floor as they never are in battle. Arthur knows. He has seen this one, a fearless thing, black streak of lightning across the skies. It pins Arthur to his bedroll with magic, looks him over with yellow eyes and steals into camp like death’s shadow.

Arthur can’t move, his limbs ensorcelled. This thing will eat him, blankets and all, while his men sleep their unnatural slumber, till they’re helplessly slaughtered, too. He  _can’t move_  save for his eyes, which flit over the beast and all around, looking for something,  _anything_  he can use to survive, raise the alarm, save his men.

Arthur’s fingers twitch uselessly, caressing the steel at his hip, unable to grasp it. And then the monster is upon him, its gold-glowing eyes stripping him of all but the most basic thoughts. It has come for him, to finish Uther’s drawn-out war by plucking the Prince of Camelot from his bed like an oyster from its shell, severing the bloodline to win the conflict.

Arthur sets his jaw and juts out his chin, proud even at this ignoble end. “Go on,” he spits at the creature, “Do what you came for.”

The dragon pauses scant inches from Arthur’s feet. It tilts its head, and Arthur could swear it understands.

It steps forward, the heat of its body throwing a glow over Arthur as it stands above him. Filled with horror, Arthur watches its tongue slip from between dagger-sharp teeth to taste the air between them, and then, a shimmer descends on the dragon’s skin as though it basks in gloaming, light burnishing its body. It seems to shrink, and smooth, and brighten, until in its place crouches a man, whose skin glows in moonlight, opalescent.

Arthur can’t breathe.

Above him, the dragon-man smiles, yellow eyes the only reminder of his true form. He forces his alien, startling beauty into Arthur’s senses, drives it under his skin, makes him pant with awe.

When he speaks, Arthur’s skin erupts in goosebumps.

“Why do you think I came,  _Pen Draig_?”

Short, sable hair, soft as pelts, caresses Arthur’s cheek as the dragon-man sniffs at his neck and jaw. Arthur’s body stiffens from throat to cock to toes, startled into high alert by the shock of this encounter. “To end the war. To kill me.”

The dragon-man laughs—rumbling thunder of a beast's throat, not this slender man’s—and  _licks Arthur’s throat_. “I come to lay claim to what’s mine, not to kill it.”

Arthur’s eyes roll back, thinking himself near death, delirious. He must be, for this is madness. “I’ve seen you in the sky,” he moans, the confession startled out of him by the rasp of the dragon-man’s tongue along clavicle and ribs and navel.

“You call to me, as I call to you. It is the way we have always been,” the dragon-man whispers, sleek head nosing along Arthur’s cock. “And ever will be.”

“I don’t know you,” Arthur hisses, confused but hot and hard as a battle-ram for this powerful, stark dragon warrior.

“I’ll help you remember,” the dragon-man murmurs, taking Arthur’s cock into the snug, moist suck of his mouth, eyes locked on Arthur’s every hiss and grunt, rocking with the rut of his hips. Feeling himself thicken along the hot cradle of the dragon-man’s tongue, he suddenly  _knows_.

His eyes widen. “ _Merlin_!”


	6. Stupid Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In-keeping with this week's overall theme, answer the age-old question: 'If *insert character here* was an animal, what animal would they be?'

Arthur groans, feeling Merlin's familiar weight and heat smothering him, pinning him to the bed.  
  
"God, you can't do  _anything_ right, you worthless little bastard," he complains.  
  
He gingerly pushes Merlin off, earning himself an indignant swat to the eyeball.  
  
"Gerroff! You're supposed to warm my feet. My feet! Not my face!"  
  
Merlin just looks at him like  _Arthur's_  the idiot and slinks off to wherever he disappears to during the day.

 


	7. Sanctuary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morgause lets Cenred have all the sensation he could ask for, and even that which he could not, _dare_ not, not ever.
> 
> Entry #2 for Round 4: Minor Characters: http://archiveofourown.org/works/453336/chapters/778087

He leaves behind the parts of himself which are knight, and warrior, and king. He shucks that noble skin outside her tent and comes unto her presence like a supplicant.

It is their way.

Cenred is no fool- it’s her way or none at all. He takes what he’s given when she chooses to give it.

In return, Morgause lets him have all the sensation he could ask for, and even that which he could not,  _dare_  not, not ever.

He has watched her all day. She lights him up with her hard eyes and sets him asimmer with cold words, until he’s aching hard for her and his blood is boiling, until he’s distilled down to an essence of stars under his eyelids, and fistfuls of bedding in sweaty palms.

She has conquered him with her indifference.

Then, she divides him with oiled hands, parting his cheeks and sinking her thumbs into his body as though she were halving a peach.

He loves her fiercely when she lays him out like this, on his stomach, like an animal.

Beneath him, furs matted with sweat and longing make his skin itch, make him restless. Cenred rubs and rolls over them like a beast in heat- as much to relieve the prickling of his skin as to satisfy the desperate need to rut, to pierce something, to fuck the way he himself is about to be fucked.

She massages and kneads him until he’s swollen and thick with it. His back is strung like a bow, practically concave as he presents her his rump, and still she takes her time.

“Spread your legs wider,” she orders, and, “I’m going to fuck you, and fuck you, and fuck you.”

Her words are waves of delight, pebbling his skin.

There is nothing left of King Cenred but bared teeth and hot, forced breath when she finally takes him, coring him with her greased, wooden cock.

He can feel the harness each time she thrusts into his body, can hear the leather creaking against buckles and eyelets where it’s fastened tight around her thighs and hips.

There is no room for thought, with all these sensations.

Trapped between the scratch of the bedding against his chest and Morgause’s yellow hair falling like lashes over his spine, he is adrift. A weightless thing.  _Her_  thing.

His cock swings heavily, engorged and purple between his legs. It’s the sweetest agony to have it occasionally brush his thigh or the furs below.

Sometimes, she knows what he’s thinking. “Touch yourself,” she says, benevolent.

Leaning all his weight on his knees and one elbow, he reaches between his legs and fists himself, groaning. He fingers his foreskin and cups his bollocks, careful not to go over, not to lose himself just yet. She likes to tell him when.

With his eyes tightly shut, he teases his fingers further, following the seam of his sac until he can feel where the smooth wood penetrates him _again_ , and  _again_ , and  _again_ , just like she promised. He spreads two fingers around its smooth, timber girth and drops his head to Morgause’s bed, sucking air just to stay conscious.

Warm hands knead down to the small of his back, Morgause’s blunt nails embossing halfmoons into his hips. She draws curlicues over his skin until her fingers meet in the cleft of his buttocks, and then she rubs over the stretch where her thickly carved phallus impales him. Their fingers bond there, hooking each other and fondling Morgause's cock.

Morgause moans like she can feel it, and for all Cenred knows, she can.

“How I love to fuck your tight little arsehole,” she tells him, knowing how her vulgarity turn him inside out with pleasure, how it makes him pant and moan like a well-tipped whore. “Pull yourself,” she says, and he does, matching her speed, her thrust to his tug.

She takes the wooden phallus in her hand and steadies it, directing it to find the thing inside him which makes his thighs quiver and blood scream in his veins, and she caresses it with the tip of the cock like she knows, just  _knows_.

Gripping his hip as tightly as her sword, she tells him, “Come,” and he does, and he does, and he does, until the tide of it breaks over his head and he spills thickly over the furs. She helps him ride it out, fucking him hard but touching him softly, and he loves the dichotomy of it, her way of showing him love.

He knows she loves him. He’s sure of it.

One day soon, when her cause-- _their_  cause--prevails, she will let him kiss her.


	8. Frythur and Merleen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever thought about what a Merlin character would be like if they were in a cartoon? ME NEITHER.  
> Thank you, Lady_Ragnell for coming up with this as a viable concept, and for not bashing me for making it into... this.
> 
> Entry for Round 4 Bonus: Cartoon Characters: http://summerpornathon.livejournal.com/81515.html


	9. The Slave Who Enslaved a King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Shah has a new slave. Or has he?
> 
> Winning Group C Entry #59 for Round 5: Myth and Legend: http://archiveofourown.org/works/459278/chapters/791261

The Shah is beginning to lose patience.

Realising he's not about to be pleasured in the manner he expects, he lifts up on bent elbows and eyeballs his stupid new slave.

One last time, he tries to explain. "You're supposed to  _entertain_  me.  _Divert_  me in a  _pleasing manner_."

He even gestures to his prone body, arranged beautifully on costly silks. Couldn't  _be_  more obvious.

Then again...

"I know, but I can't even think straight because you're just going to have me killed in the morning. And it's not like I can do magic or anything. I can't even juggle!"

"Haven't you been...prepared?" Exasperated, Arthur gestures vaguely at the boy's whole person.

"Well, they've bathed me, if that's what you mean. And. You know. Oiled me." The boy looks away, pink around the ears, muttering something that sounds like  _'in strange places'_.

Arthur is incredulous. There's nothing for it. He's just going to have to pull out his cock.

He sits up, then realizes he's not even horny anymore, and the stupid slave won't stop babbling.

"I suppose it's so I don't offend your delicate, royal sensibilities."

Arthur hums, eyes snagging on the complete opposite of offensive: the bony nub of a pale shoulder, lean, coltish thighs beneath the short tunic, and dark eyes skillfully daubed with blue. He's really quite lovely, though Arthur suspects he absolutely doesn't know it, which is just as well. Nothing worse than vain slaves.

"Well, it appears the one thing you can certainly do is talk. Come. Talk to me." And what the hell? Arthur can't believe he just said that.

With an excited little grin, the slave does just that, spilling lanky limbs onto the Shah's huge bed like a child beginning an adventure.

~/~/~

"...suddenly a glowing orb appeared above the Prince's head, guiding him to-"

"I know what you're doing, you know," Arthur interrupts, yawning as dawn razes his rooms with unearthly radiance. The sleepless nights are really beginning to catch up with him.

Merlin blinks, confused. "What?"

"You take so long to tell your stories that suddenly it's morning and I can't get rid of you if I want to hear how they end."

Merlin tuts. "Well, no wonder it takes me so long to tell them. You and your stupid questions and your wandering hands keep interrupting!"

"I'm tired! I want to know what happens NOW!" Arthur grumbles, rubbing his eyes, ignoring the bit about the hands. He'd hate to analyse why he's prepared to listen to Merlin tell him stories night after night instead of having his dick spend all its time between his pert-

"You're one of those people who skip to the last page, aren't you?"

Arthur glares. Stupid slave.

He rolls over, nudging his head into the nook between Merlin's side and armpit. He curls in like a big cat and sighs.

" _Fine_. Get on with it," he mumbles into warm skin, ears full of warriors and monsters and a strange sort of love. He falls asleep with Merlin's hand sifting through his hair.

~/~/~

"But he  _can't_  marry her, that's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. You're obviously telling it wrong," Arthur says, stretching out next to Merlin.

Winter is upon them, brightly dyed silks giving way to thick woolen throws. The Shah's hand has held many beautiful things, but he can't remember any of them being quite as fascinating as Merlin's inner thigh, glowing with heat from the open hearth. He slides the very tip of his finger between tunic and skin, luxuriating in it.

"He needs sons to rule after him." Merlin's voice sounds breathy. Arthur looks up to find Merlin's eyes hooded and his lovely mouth slightly parted.

"Aren't there pretty slave girls in his palace? He can't be very bright, this king." Arthur's finger burrows a little higher, and he's rewarded by Merlin's tongue darting out to wet his lip. Arthur's eyes track it with astounding focus.

"He's the greatest king who ever lived," Merlin protests weakly, gasping when the full weight of the Shah's kneading palm descends on his leg.

"I think you'll find that's me, actually," Arthur says darkly.

"Oh, yes," Merlin groans in agreement as Arthur's triumphantly smiling mouth follows his hand under the short tunic. "And so very humble."

Arthur bites him, relishing the startled yelp.

"If it takes me a thousand and one nights, Merlin, I'll have you begging for me, I swear it."

Merlin tuts, scooting lower on the bed of cushions. "And you say  _I_  never shut up," he mutters, guiding the Shah's hungry, pink mouth between his thighs, opening his legs as wide as he can.


	10. Tag Team - The Avengers crossover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Merlin has cocksucking lips, Steve has a cock, and Arthur likes to watch.
> 
> Entry #14 for Round 6: Crossovers/Fusions: http://archiveofourown.org/works/464979/chapters/802715

A sly elbow-nudge to the ribs and Arthur looks from the TV to Merlin, who grins like an imp and silently mouths:  _Watch this._

Merlin leans forward with his elbows on spread knees, a longneck dangling loosely from his fingers. He stretches and yawns with an outrageous little mewl, all lean, long and sinewy, and at the other end of the couch, Steve stiffens.

When Merlin takes a long, lazy pull of beer, Steve’s eyes follow the shape of Merlin’s mouth around the longneck’s lip.

Holy snapping duckshit. Merlin’s gaydar was right.

Merlin grins, and nudges Arthur with his knee.  _Want to?_

Out of Steve’s line of sight, Arthur gently rubs the seam along Merlin’s jeans, up and down with his finger.

Arthur clears his throat. “So, how’s it going with Tony?”

Steve looks like he’s choking on his own spit, coughs uncontrollably for a minute and sits up really, really straight. “What do you--?”

“Nothing. It’s just. Well.” Arthur pauses for maximum effect. “Forget I said anything.” He pretends to be immersed in the footie game they’re watching, waiting for the inside of Steve’s head to start eating itself.

He palms Merlin’s thigh, digging in a little with his fingertips. It smacks of  _having_  and Arthur can almost feel the heat from Steve’s eyeballs like a trail of burning rubber revved on the back of his hand.

Steve shunts forward until he’s on the edge of the seat. “All right. What about Tony?”

Arthur shrugs. “You fucking yet?”

Merlin breaks out the biggest shit-eating grin when Steve, Captain Motherfucking America, erupts into a flurry of panicky giggles.

“What? No! What?” he squeals the way a man of his stature never should.

“It’s understandable,” Arthur continues. “Must be hard getting back in the swing after so many decades.”  
  
Steve’s nervous giggling stops abruptly. “There was never any swing.”  
  
Arthur grins like a velociraptor. "Really."  
  
The pause is so pregnant, its ankles are swollen.  
  
Merlin hums. “Well. We could talk about how Tony hasn’t had a chance to corrupt you. Yet.” He slides off the couch onto his knees and shuffles to kneel between Steve’s feet, grinning wolfishly. “Or, we could go straight to the part where I suck your cock harder than a vampire hooker while Arthur watches. What do you say?”

Arthur thinks if Steve nodded any more violently, his head would fall off.

~*~*~

Contrary to his promise, Merlin doesn’t suck hard, not at the start, anyway. With Arthur alongside them on the couch, Merlin goes about Steve like he’s a gourmet meal.

He spreads him out, holding his big thighs apart with a firm grip, and Steve’s eyes are like saucers. He has a fantastic cock; Merlin thinks so too, if the  _It’s Fucking Christmas!_  written on his face is any indication. Looking at Arthur with huge eyes, he waves a game-show flourish over it and says, “Merlin Emrys, come on down!” Arthur laughs, Steve reaches for his pants but Merlin slaps his hands away, diving face-first into his crotch. Arthur knows Steve doesn’t stand a chance against Merlin’s cocksucking lips once they’ve acquired their target.

Merlin teases first, kissing and kitten-licking Steve’s thighs. He doesn’t go anywhere near Steve’s rapidly filling cock, just nuzzles into his sac and licks all around it, worrying it with open-mouth kisses until Steve’s head thunks backward into the couch with a groan that’s bordering on pain.

Merlin mouths Steve’s balls and flicks his tongue all along the seam, alternating between teasing and long slides of his tongue that have Arthur squirming, too. By the time Merlin’s mouth actually descends on Steve’s cock, all three of them are breathless and wound-up. Merlin takes him down wet and so fucking slow, and Steve moans like he’s dying.

Arthur loves the way Merlin sucks cock, cradling and laving the underside with his tongue while working a hot suck over all he can fit in his mouth. Watching Steve get the treatment makes him feel heavy and swollen all over, thick with lust.

Steve’s eyes roll back, so Arthur hikes up Steve’s t-shirt and fingers Steve’s nipples into hard kernels. And  _fuck_ , that might be Steve’s big dick filling Merlin’s mouth, but it’s  _Arthur_  Merlin’s eyes are pinned to. It’s  _Arthur_  he’s watching when he finally brings Steve off with his hand, come splattering all over his mouth, dripping off his chin.

“His mouth’s made for sucking dick, isn’t it? Not only does it shut him up, but finally,  _something_  he’s good at,” Arthur murmurs, eyeing Merlin’s grinning, filthy face. Steve groans incoherently.

“Your turn?” Merlin says, and it’s all Arthur can do not to leap over Steve like he’s a hurdle.


	11. The Trouble With Merlin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a moment, Arthur thinks Merlin knows he’s gone too far, but of course not, because it’s Merlin.
> 
> Winning Group B Entry #27 for Round 7: Non-Penetration: http://archiveofourown.org/works/471078/chapters/815033

“I’m ready,” Arthur announces, lying on his stomach. “Get on with it.”  
  
“You could be a little more gracious. This  _is_  for your protection.”  
  
Arthur scoffs. “I’m indulging this silliness, Merlin. That’s plenty gracious.”  
  
He can almost hear Merlin’s eyeroll, as a creaky dip in the bed heralds him clambering up. A silent moment stretches just long enough for Arthur to feel extremely exposed, struggling to remember why he’d agreed to this.  
  
Merlin’s hands are steady and warm when they finally touch his shoulder. It’s like a rub-down after a tourney, in that they’re familiarly rough and bony, but also not, in that they’re not pummeling him senseless. Instead, they etch Arthur’s skin like they’re quills and he’s parchment.  
  
Arthur’s eyes sliver open. He can make light of it now, but he’ll never stop being curious about magic, especially Merlin’s, hidden in plain sight all those years. His eyes chase Merlin’s fingertips, and Arthur will  _never_  be used to this, never  _not_ shiver at the unpredictable thrill of the supernatural, never  _not_  be awed by the power Merlin possesses, though he’d sooner eat rats than tell how it fascinates him.  
  
Merlin concentrates on his hands as they skate over Arthur’s bicep and forearm. He draws glowing symbols and mouths words Arthur doesn’t recognise, and the prickling on his skin turns into piercing heat as the magic seeps bone-deep, flooding his very blood. Feverish ribbons wend through his veins and Arthur gasps at the intimate intrusion, and at the guttural sounds falling from Merlin’s mouth. Which...was it  _always_  so pink?  
  
 _Oh God._  
  
Arthur feels like an intruder in his own skin. He's suddenly parched, but he can’t interrupt, doesn’t ever want Merlin to stop speaking with that mystic intent.  
  
Thickening against the bed, Arthur silently endures Merlin scratching incantations over his arms and legs. He feels frayed, loose and tight and hot and cold, and when Merlin’s fingertips glance the crease high on his thighs, he shudders, unable to stop himself from bucking, feeling every heartbeat in the throb of his cock trapped beneath.  
  
Merlin hums and Arthur could just die from embarrassment, but the scribing doesn’t stop. Merlin’s fingers still dance over his shoulders, neck, and the dip of his spine. He drags gold letters into the dimples at the small of Arthur’s back, skims over his tailbone only to come back to it again and again, and gently topple into the cleft between.  
  
Arthur’s mouth falls open, lungs scraped of breath.  
  
For a moment, he thinks Merlin knows he’s gone too far, but  _of course_  not, because it’s  _Merlin_. Instead of mortification, Arthur gets Merlin’s knees between his own, and then he’s nudged open, Merlin a sleek wedge between Arthur’s legs, easing them apart with inexorable will.  
  
Arthur should put a stop to this, but Merlin’s words glint like shaved metal from his mouth, and then he’s hoarsely muttering spells against the inside of Arthur’s thigh, sending hot breath over flesh so sensitised, Arthur thinks he’s going to burst into flames if Merlin doesn’t do something,  _anything_ \--  
  
Merlin’s hand skirts up Arthur’s back, then pivots at the wrist to slide fingers-first down his arse, and Arthur can’t help it, he bucks into the bed, collecting Merlin’s splayed fingers around his balls, and his thumb over his hole on the upstroke.  
  
There’s a surprised, deep groan, which Arthur realises is his because Merlin’s still chanting, ribbons of words curling around Arthur’s sac and the base of his cock, along with hot fingers.  
  
The shock of Merlin’s tongue sends Arthur’s insides into a hot clench and his knees slide out. He sucks shallow breaths as Merlin eats him, burrowing his face into Arthur’s flesh, digging in with fingers and tongue, kissing and whispering, making waves of heat burst through the lattice of Arthur’s ribs. And  _oh God_ , Arthur has experienced the steady unfurling of a climax at his own convenient touch or that of whores, but this is  _nothing_  like that, this relentless pleasure wrenched from deep in his gut where Merlin’s magic makes everything hotter and brighter and golden.  
  
Merlin’s mouth is all over him, sucking and kissing and wetly licking, and  _fuck_ , Merlin  _loves it_ , Arthur can feel him groaning against the base of his cock as he curls his tongue around it. He fingers, spreads and probes until Arthur’s coming, fucking himself to pieces into crushed coverlets.  
  
It takes forever to breathe again.  
  
Merlin’s a dead weight, face mashed into Arthur’s thigh.  
  
“I will  _graciously_  not kill you for this transgression.” Probably should have waited until the panting was under control to speak. “And stop smirking.”


End file.
